


Queen of the Night

by flamehairedwritings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bad Intrusive Thoughts About Your Body, Dirty Talk, F/M, Sex, Star's Full Figured Fantasy Challenge, Swearing, challenge writing, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 18:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamehairedwritings/pseuds/flamehairedwritings
Summary: At a Stark party, it’s up for debate who’s more uncomfortable; you or Steve Rogers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hi, there. This has been written for @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan‘s Full Figured Fantasy Challenge on Tumblr with the prompt: ‘There is no wrong way to have a body’. 
> 
> It’s a very personal story so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Please don’t copy, steal or repost my work; credit does not count.

* * *

 

 

You should’ve known you’d regret it.

Yet you’d felt confident at the time.

Sexy, even, and that wasn’t something you often felt.

_Oh my God, I look fucking amazing._

That had been two weeks ago when you were alone in your bedroom and the lighting had been warm and the mirror had been angled perfectly, as it always was.

Now, at Stark’s party, surrounded by bright lights, photographers and all the beautiful and elite of the city, you’re feeling very differently.

_Why did I have to go with a fucking body-con._

The dress is gold, clings to you and stops just above your knees. You have no way of hiding and you so desperately want to. You can’t even leave; you’ve retreated to the furthest corner of the large room where’s it moderately quieter and where no members of the paparazzi are lurking. Even the thought of walking across the room, passing people, passing the photographers outside again, is making you sweat and your chest tighten; you have to keep switching the empty glass from one hand to the other so it won’t slip from your warm palms.

“Another one, ma’am?” 

_Oh, fuck off._

The waitress has returned, a full glass on her tray. She’s giving you the same look as before which she probably thinks is coming off as kindly sympathetic but it’s just pitying. Sheer, fuck-off pitying. 

“Yes, thank you.” You smile politely, swapping your glass for the one she offers.

She gives the same chummy smile as before, then turns and leaves. 

You release a breath and take a long sip, your gaze flicking about the room. 

Everyone’s here tonight, all members of the Avengers, field agents and agents you work with in the offices, which should be comforting but is, in fact, the complete opposite.

You work with these people. You’ve all seen each other at your emotional best and worst. You’ve all seen each other without make-up, in sweats, greasy-haired, huge red spots on your faces, and no one bats an eyelid. 

_So why is this different?_

You know why. No one’s ever seen you in anything tighter than a pant suit.

_Stop feeling like shit, it’s so ridiculous._

It’s not like they don’t know you’re fat, fuller figured, plus-sized, large, curvy, whatever word people want to use to define your body, it’s not like they don’t know. It’s not some great secret. It’s just different when you’re sat at your desk helping to save lives because that’s the sole focus.

Now, here, the focus is on each other. It’s a party; people go to parties to fuck, drink and dance. It’s the only chance you all get to relax a little and let go some what. The Avengers can’t, not at these things, they have to be ‘the face’ and act accordingly, but the agents can go relatively wild. You know they’ll all be gossiping about who fucked who tomorrow.

You wonder if they’ll gossip about you, too.

It won’t be cruel. You get on with everyone you work with; you’re never without a witty comment, you’re damn good at your job and you always bring baked goods in for Friday breakfast.  

It’ll be the same as the waitress, though. It’ll be pitying, grateful-it’s-not-them whispering about how brave you were to wear the dress, how proud they were that you did it. You’ve already had a few comments of ‘ _Yes, girl!_ ’ and ‘ _Holy shit, look at you!_ ’ from colleagues as you passed them to get to this safe corner, but it just sounded so false, too forced. Like they knew you needed the confidence boost.

_Go home._

How, though? You’ve led high-risk missions on the other side of the world through an ear-piece and helped negotiate with one of the most temperamental crime lords in the world but you can’t walk across a damn room, order a damn cab and go home.

“Hey.”

_Oh, thank fuck._

Turning at the quiet voice, you are welcomed by the sight of the only person in the room probably more uncomfortable than you; Steve Rogers.

And you’ve never felt more relieved.

“Hi,” you answer, matching his smile as he stands at your side, hands in his pockets and his eyes on the steadily escalating dance-off in the centre of the room; Agent Barton’s still winning.

“Not gonna show everyone how it’s done?”

“I will when you do.”

He exhales a laugh, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. “I’ll let you know when hell freezes over.” 

Silence falls as you sip your drink and he continues to watch his team members dance, Sam Wilson literally throwing his hat into the ring and becoming a strong contender for the winner, and it’s wonderfully comfortable.

You’ve collaborated with Steve on nearly every single one of his missions outside of the Avengers Initiative, and over that time an easy, what you dare to call friendship has formed, one born from the trust you’ve both earned from one another and the respect in your logical, like-minded way of thinking. You were also one of the few who didn’t lobby hard to collaborate with him when he joined SHIELD; sure, you’d made the application, same as everyone else because who  _wouldn’t_  want to work with Captain America, but you hadn’t gone out of your way to ‘bump’ into him during training or sent him a hand-written, 13 page letter detailing how he had inspired you to become an agent. 

You were nervous before your final interview, having made it to the last three applicants, but you knew you wouldn’t think it the end of the world if you didn’t get the job. Then you’d entered the room and found you’d be having a one-to-one interview with Captain Steve Rogers.

You’d never spoken to him before, only seen him in halls and meetings, and as he rose from his chair and shook your hand, you’d tried very hard to ignore the fact you were shaking hands with a living legend and icon. Albeit a tired but very polite living legend and icon.

He didn’t want to be there but you weren’t offended; this wasn’t how he was used to doing things. He was used to being given information, being dropped into the mission zone and figuring out for himself how best to work through it. He probably wasn’t thrilled at the notion of having someone with less experience in his ear giving him updates every few minutes, making sure he ticked boxes and advising what would be best to do.

In fact, you’d told him that. That had been your opening introduction. You had no idea where it had come from. You weren’t usually that bold with superiors unless it mattered, but something in you had told you this was a time when it mattered. You’d told him that and more, saying you would guide when guidance was needed and advise when advising was needed.

He had blinked in surprise then sat back in his chair and smiled.

Since then it had been the easiest of partnerships. You trusted each other’s judgements, rarely, strongly, disagreed and you both actually, genuinely got on very well. He didn’t mind in the middle of a mission if you started talking about a TV series you were watching, and you didn’t mind that he often called you ‘Hepburn’, a nickname born from when, a couple of months into your new role, he’d told you you’d reminded him of Katharine Hepburn with your assertive opening statement.

At times he’d had to defend you to your superiors for not bringing him in when they’d advised or not reporting him when he’d done something they’d prohibited, and you had got him out of more situations than you cared to count. 

You could read each other irritatingly well, so there is no doubt in your mind he knows how uncomfortable you are and the reason for it.

_Great._

Drawing his eyes away after a few minutes as Sam is seemingly declared the winner, though Barton seems to just be calling a time-out, Steve looks to you.

"You seem to have done the impossible in this place and found a quiet corner.”

_Oh, fuck, is he going to broach the subject now? Why did I wear this fucking dress?_

You raise your eyebrows as you nod at the small table before you with an obnoxiously large floral arrangement on it which you’d been using as cover, though he’d still found you. 

“I can’t take all the credit, that’s doing most of the work.”

Then, beyond the flowers, you spot a middle-aged couple whispering to each other as they near, one of them trying, and failing, to subtly either film or take a picture of Steve.

“Oh, don’t look now, we’ve been spotted, Captain,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He exhales a quiet sigh as his teeth briefly graze over his lower lip. “I’m sorry, I’ve ruined your peace.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, I was thinking of leaving now, anyway.”

_Once I’d stopped being a child and made my legs work._

“Yeah, me, too.” Gazing over your head, you can  _see_  the plan he’s forming. “Come on.” 

Gently tapping a finger tip against your hand, he then passes behind you and opens the door to your left.

_Oh my God, thatwas unlocked the whole time?_

Holding it open for you, he gestures with his head for you to pass through. 

You don’t need telling twice. 

 

* * *

 

“You memorised the layout of the place, didn’t you?”

He glances over at you, looking nowhere near as sheepish as the situation probably demands. “Well, it makes for an easier exit.”

The wind carries your laugh. 

He’d taken the lead after you’d passed through the door and had known every turn to take, almost as if he’d spent the night before planning various escape routes. 

_Thank God._

You’d eventually come out behind the building and you’d just arched an eyebrow at him as you spotted his car parked across the street.

_Again, thank God._

Then, as you’d gotten in to the car, he’d said something that was even more amazing than getting you out of there.

“You fancy getting pizza?”

“Am I ever going to say no to that?”

He’d laughed at your faux-incredulous response, but you had hesitated for a moment. Eating, in this dress, feeling as you were..?

But then you’d thought,  _Fuck it, I want pizza._

And that’s how you found yourself sitting on a bench with Steve, a box of pizza between you, gazing out across a lake.

“Do you want the last slice?”

You really do, but… Having had five slices, sat there in a gold dress that makes you stand out like a shining star in the night sky, you wonder for the first time what Steve thinks when he sees you.

You hate the thought as soon as it enters your head.

You’ve gotten this far without thinking it about him; you think it with nearly everyone else you see, but you’d been raised with the idea of Steve just being this golden boy who was kind to everyone, never had a bad or judgemental thought about anyone. It was rare you and Steve were really in front of each other, so much of your work was over the phone or earpiece or through video calls. Even in briefings you’d be sat at a table and you’d be carrying a pile of folders in front of you. It hadn’t crossed your mind to think about what he thought of your body, until now.

“You all right, Hepburn?”

You’re pulled from your intrusive thoughts by his question and shift your gaze over to him. 

“Hm? Yeah, sure, just in a bit of a food coma, that’s all.” Even you can hear how forced your laugh is. “You have it.”

He eyes you for a moment before lifting the slice and taking a large bite.

“Thanks for escaping with me, by the way. You really have been with me every single step of the way.”

_Oh, God._

This is the beginning of his roundabout, old man way of getting you to open up, you know it is.

“Nearly every step,” you counter, unable to stop a smile from forming despite yourself.

“Oh yeah,” he muses through a mouthful. “Panama. Say, where were you again?”

“In Ibiza, holidaying for the first time in ten years. You ever heard of a holiday? You should try it sometime.”

“I think I have. Wasn’t that invented in the 60s?”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin as you laugh and, damn it, let your guard down.

“What’s going on, Hepburn?” he asks gently, dropping the half-eaten slice back into the box and wiping the grease from his hands. “What’s going on in that brain?”

Your smile falters as you look at him. A quiet breath you realise you’ve been holding leaves you. Looking down at your hands, you fiddle with a ring on your finger.

He waits patiently, keeping his gaze on you.

_Just say it._

“Steve… What do you think when you look at me?”

It nearly kills you to say it. You don’t want to know the answer. You don’t want to listen to him. You want to be far away, back in your bedroom with three covers over you and your laptop balanced on your thighs, watching your new favourite show. You want to escape again.

Steve blinks. He hadn’t known what to expect but it certainly wasn’t that.

“I think you’re a very intelligent, debatably hilarious person who I like and I want to be around.”

Your hands pause. Your eyes flick over to him. “… That’s it?”

He blinks again, now feeling rather sheepish. “Doyou want more? You are hilarious, you know, it’s not debatable and ─ “

“No,” you quickly cut him off before he gets too carried away. “Well, yes, no, I just thought…”

“You thought what?” he presses after you trail off.

Lifting your gaze to the night sky, you blow out a breath and a second after it, it all just comes out.

“My body, Steve, I thought you’d say something about my body because, you know, how could you not? I know you’re probably just being polite but, come on, it’s the first thing people see when they look at me, you know. It’s not exactly avoidable. I know how people think, Steve, even if they’re my friend they must think some bullshit sympathy thing every time they look at me, you know, people in this world can’t just look at someone for their personality and, I know, I  _know_ , I’m more than my body, it doesn’t matter what other people think, I know all that, I tell myself all of that and most days I believe it, I really do, most days I don’t care but sometimes it’s just, some days are hard, especially when I decide to wear a bright fucking gold dress that shows every part of my body and I don’t like it, I don’t like the way I look sometimes and I hate that, I hate that I just can’t… Get over it.”

Another breath rushes out of you, slightly shuddered, and you beg yourself not to cry.

_Oh, God, please don’t cry, please don’t fucking cry now._

He doesn’t say anything and you can’t look at him.

Then you feel his hand gently settle over yours, seizing your hands from their playing with the ring again.

“Take it from someone who’s had two very different ones; there is no wrong way to have a body.”

You finally look at him, and it’s not pity you find in his eyes, but understanding. Real, genuine understanding.

****“People are going to think bullshit things,” he continues as you stare at him, his hand remaining over yours, a gentle smile on his lips, “They’re gonna take one look at you and think they’ve got you all figured out. But none of that matters. I know it’s hard to not think about it, but they don’t know a damn thing about you, what you’re really like. Those kinds of people aren’t worth knowing, anyway. It’s never how you look but what you do and how you behave that stays with people. I know it takes some time to unlearn society’s ‘rules’ and start really learning to love yourself but it can be done.” He squeezes your hand lightly. “And I wasn’t kidding, you’re incredibly intelligent, you’re kind, you’re funny, and that’s what I see when I look at you. I see the person that you are.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe. His smile widens a little more as you squeeze his hand in return, your lips lifting into a smile that almost matches his.

“Thank you, Steve,” you murmur, afraid if you speak any louder that your voice might crack with emotion.

“Don’t mention it,” he answers, the pad of his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve been there.”

Clearing your throat, you feel real relief as you quietly confide, “I just wish I hadn’t worn something so tight and bright, you know.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m glad you did, Hepburn. Otherwise I would never have found you behind those damn flowers and I wouldn’t be here now with my favourite person.”

You feel your cheeks flush as you arch an eyebrow. “I’m your favourite person, huh?”

“Yeah, you are.” You think you see the faintest hint of colour rise on his own cheeks as he releases your hand and sits back. “I look forward to talking to you every day. Even when you ramble on about the Netflix.”

You laugh as he smiles, knowing that gets you every damn time.

“Y’know, now that you mention it, last night I started a show─”

“Okay, all right.” Steve closes the pizza box and wipes his hands on his thighs, feigning a sigh of resignation. “Before you start and I can’t get a word in, I think this calls for sundaes.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Always gotta have dessert.” Getting to his feet, he turns to you, then pauses, and a corner of his mouth lifts higher than the other. 

“Oh, God, what? Is there sauce on my face?”

“No, you’re fine, Hepburn,” he laughs as your hands fly up to your face. “Just look like the damn queen of the night is all.”

Your eyebrows shoot up as your cheeks flush again. “Oh…” Clearing your throat, you smile as you tilt your head. “That how you talk to all the girls back in the day, huh?”

He laughs as you get to your feet, holding out his hand to you. “No, that one’s just for you.”

 

* * *

 


	2. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, there. I just wanted to take a quick moment to say thank you so, so much to everyone who read, liked, bookmarked and commented on Part I. I can’t express how much it means to me, so thank you, thank you, thank you.

* * *

 

 

Things had changed. 

Something had shifted.

Marginally.

Minutely.

Since you’d spoken on the bench with Steve Rogers two months ago something had happened. 

Something in you had changed.

It had somehow become just slightly easier for you to push bad thoughts about yourself away. Not all the time, but most of the time. 

Oh, and you’d developed feelings for Steve Rogers.

But you aren’t thinking about the latter point. No, you’re not.

If you think about it, you’ll start to over-think and it’s two minutes to 8 and any second now he’ll be connecting online and he’ll hear how flustered you are as you bid him good evening and he’ll ask why and he’ll know you’re lying when you tell him you were just-almost-late to your desk because you’re never just-almost-late to your desk and then he’ll get the real reason out of you because you can’t lie to him and then he’ll politely let you down and you’ll feel like an absolute idiot and then in a few weeks time he’ll ask for a new collaborative colleague to be polite or you will because you’ll just be so fucking embarrassed and it’ll be an absolute nightmare and then you’ll just have to move out of the city or even the country and transfer to the European office but everyone’ll probably know by then because everyone always finds out everything so you’ll probably have to have a career change and that—

“Good morning, Hepburn.”

“Hi, good evening,” you answer automatically, your eyes widening a fraction and your body stiffening as his voice sounds in your ear.

“You sound flustered, what’s up?”

_Oh, fuck._

“There was a moth.”

_What the fuck?_

“A moth?”

“Yeah, it nearly landed on my face.”

“That doesn’t sound fun.”

“No, it wasn’t, it was huge.”

_Move on, you idiot, move on._

“Anyway, how are you this evening?”

There’s the slightest of pauses, or you think there is, you don’t know, he could just be taking a breath and you’re reading in to it, you probably are— 

“I’m not bad. Glad I’ll soon be out of here.”

“Only 12 hours and 53 minutes,” you confirm, glancing at the countdown on your computer screen.

“Oh, only? I can practically feel my bed from here.”

_I wish I could._

_Woah, where the fuck did that come from?_

You laugh, slightly harder than you would have had your traitorous brain not decided to join in. “Yeah, not long at all.”

“You got any updates for me?”

Grateful for the opportunity to focus on something important,  _take note brain_ , you open a document on your computer. 

“Yeah, the guards have changed their timings again, it’s now every 15 minutes they switch.”

“That doesn’t give me a lot of time.”

“No, it doesn’t. The guards at the east entrance seem to enjoy a chat when they change, though.”

“Good to know. Thank you, Hepburn, I’ll check in in 10.”

“All righty,” you answer perhaps a little too brightly, and he ends the connection. 

Blowing out a long breath, you sit back in your chair, elbows on the armrests. 

_Get a grip or you’re going to lose him._

That makes you pull yourself together. 

 

* * *

 

The microwave alarm beeps and it’s the greatest sound in the world. Well, today.

Kicking the blankets off of your legs and rising from the couch, you pause your programme and adjust your pyjama shorts as you head into the kitchen. Using your finger tips to extract the popcorn bag from the microwave, you hurry to the counter and tear it open, pouring the entire contents into the bowl you have ready.

Grabbing a handful and popping them into your mouth as you carry the bowl back to the couch, you resume the horizontal position you’ve held for the past two hours.

The day had been long, as always, and the moment you’d got home you’d dried off from the rain, gotten into your pyjamas and settled on the couch, as always. Steve was due to land at any moment and you’re trying not to look at your phone every ten seconds to check if he’s messaged. 

_He’ll message when he lands. Like he always does. Calm down._

Straightening the blankets, you place the bowl on your lap and press ‘ _play_ ’ on the remote.

The moment you do, your phone vibrates. 

You nearly spill popcorn onto the floor as your arm darts out and you grab it from the coffee table. Leaning up on your elbow, the notification flashes up with his name and your chest tightens slightly. You tap on it and unlock your phone.

> _Hey, Hepburn, just landed. Fury wants to wait until the morning to debrief, he wants us both there. Is it all right if I drop by for a while? I’m on the bike and I don’t fancy getting soaked in this downpour._

_Oh, God. Oh, Lord. Oh, fuck._

You can’t say no. He’s come round before when it’s rained after a mission, his place is on the other side of the city. You also can’t say no because it’s rude and you are not rude and even if you did he won’t ask why not but you’ll feel like you have to give a reason otherwise he’ll know something’s up and anyway he knows you never do anything outside of work and if you were going to you would have told him because, again, you never do anything and—

Your phone vibrates again.

> _No trouble if not._

Oh, God, you can’t say no. You don’t  _want_  to say no.

Your thumbs start to move.

> _Sure, come on over! I’ll have towels waiting._

Oh, God, that sounds a lot calmer than you actually are. He answers almost immediately.

> _Thanks, Hepburn. I’ll see you in five._

You lock your phone and lift your gaze. There are wrappers on the coffee table, the bra you’d removed as soon as you’d come home, unwashed plates in the sink and you’re in shorts and an old shirt. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

_Five minutes, you can do this._

Turning the TV off and darting off the couch, you gather your blankets up and speed-fold them before grabbing the wrappers and running into the kitchen. After throwing them into the bin, you try not to break the plates and cutlery as you stack them into the dishwasher as quickly as you can, then you’re running again, this time to your bedroom. 

Collecting your work clothes from the floor, you throw them into your wardrobe before grabbing the nearest ‘decent’ clothes available; sweatpants and a sweater. Tugging them on, you hurry back into the living room, glancing at the clock on the wall.

Two minutes left.

Steve’s the kind of guy to arrive precisely when he says he will.

Darting back into the kitchen, you then pause, your hands frozen mid-air as your gaze scans the room. Everything’s clear. Will he want coffee? Should you get a pot of coffee going? Or will he see you’ve made a pot and only have a cup to be polite? Will he want water? Should you put something in the oven? He didn’t say he was bringing anything. Usually he’ll say he’ll pick something up on the way— 

The buzzer sounds.

_Oh, fuck._

You dart over to the panel and gaze at the screen. There he is, gazing out at the street, his hands in his pockets. You press the button to allow him entrance to the building.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, less than a minute._

You adjust your clothes as you step back and hover by the door.

_Relax, you idiot, just fucking relax. It’s just like any other day. You’ll talk about the mission, the rain will stop in a couple of hours, then he’ll leave. Just be normal._

Three knocks sound against the door.

You inhale a long, quiet breath, counting to ten so you don’t answer too quickly, then step forward and open the door.

Steve Rogers lifts his head and smiles at you.

“Hey, Hepburn.”

“Hi.” A smile automatically lifts your lips at the sight of him, though you can barely look him in the eye so you quickly step back to let him in. 

Nodding, he passes you and removes his shoes, pushing them neatly against the wall, and removes his jacket, hanging it up on one of the pegs before moving into the kitchen.

“How are you doing?” he asks as you close the door and follow after him, your hands disappearing inside the sleeves of your sweater as you fold your arms.

“Yeah, fine,” you answer, supremely nonchalantly, trying to slip into the emotionless state you enter when interviewing suspects. “How are you?”

“Good, thank you. Glad to be home.” 

You return his smile again, because you can never not, and suddenly note that he’s standing by the coffee machine, gazing at you. 

_Oh, fuck, you idiot, be a God damn polite host._

“Sorry,” you practically blurt out, darting into action, “Would you like a drink? Coffee? Water? Juice?”

Raising your eyebrows, you step closer to the coffee pot, placing your hand on the lid.

“Yes, please, that would be great. Do you want one? If not, I can make it myself, I know where everything is.”

“No, no, it’s fine, take a seat, you’ve had a long journey.”

God, now you feel exactly like a mother, you’re even  _shooing_  him away with your hands.

Pushing away from the counter, his smile widens as he rounds the counter to the breakfast bar and slides up onto a seat. Leaning his forearms on the counter, he watches you drop coffee pods into the machine.

“Thanks for letting me come over, I hope I’m not disturbing your evening too much.”

“No, no, it’s fine,”  _stop saying that you idiot,_  “I was just watching some TV, nothing exciting.”

Flicking the machine on, you turn back to him, folding your arms with a smile. 

And, oh God, you try not to stare at him.

He’d been worried about getting soaked but he practically is already; his hair is swept to one side, plastered to his head, his shirt is drenched down the front from where his jacket hadn’t been able to protect him, and there’s a sinfully distracting raindrop running down his neck. 

“Towels.” You’re blurting again. “I’ll get you some towels, sorry.”

Before he can say a word, you’re out of the kitchen and heading into your bedroom. As you open the bottom drawer of the chest, you blow out a breath. 

_Get a grip, please, just get a grip, please stop being weird._

Gathering a bundle of folded towels, you return to the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” he smiles as you place the towels beside him before retreating to the coffee machine. 

“It’s turned really suddenly, huh,” you remark conversationally as you pull a mug out of a cupboard, pleased that your tone sounds the most ‘you’ since he entered. 

“Yeah, I checked before I left to go and it was meant to be all right. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have taken the bike.”

“You could’ve borrowed someone’s car, or a SHIELD car.” You’re starting to calm down as you busy yourself with pouring his coffee out and retrieving the milk, the comfortable confidence of knowing how he likes it and not having to look at him for a couple of minutes doing wonders. 

“And left my bike there on her own? How dare you, Hepburn.” 

You smile at that, picking the mug up and turning to him.

And you nearly instantly drop it.

His shirt is off. It’s off and it’s folded neatly on the chair beside him. His hair is ruffled and sticking up in places, he’s obviously attempted to towel it dry. His vest is sticking to parts of his chest, the rain having soaked through.

_Stop staring, stop staring, stop staring._

Grazing your teeth over your lower lip, you step forward as he drapes a towel around his neck and place the mug before him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he takes the mug and raises it to his lips, blowing on the steaming liquid to cool it a little before taking a sip.

_Stop staring at his mouth._

Lowering the mug back down, he lifts his gaze to you and smiles. “You always make it perfectly.”

It’s a damn compliment about your coffee making skills, one he’s said a thousand different ways to you before, but you can’t stop the flush that rises on your cheeks.

“Oh, well… Shall we go into the living room?” you ask without much room for argument as you’re already moving towards it, trying to duck your head a little to hide your blush. “It’s comfier.”

And maybe he can cover up with a blanket.

And you won’t have to sit right next to him.

“Hepburn.” 

_Oh, no, not **that**  tone._

Steve’s suddenly out of his seat and gently grabbing your hand, prompting you into an abrupt halt.

“Hey.”

_Oh, no._

Lifting your gaze, you meet his, concern very much evident.

“What’s going on?” he asks in that same gentle tone, his thumb lightly brushing against the back of your hand.

You don’t even know why you bother.

“Nothing, Steve, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” His frown deepens as he scans your features. “You haven’t been for a couple of weeks.”

_Oh, God. Oh, God, this is it._

“Steve, I…”

“It’s all right, you can tell me,” he prompts gently when you trail off, continuing to lightly caress your hand.

His gestures defeat you.

_Just say it. Just get it over with._

“Steve, I like you.” The words start to tumble out, but you’re proud of yourself for keeping your voice steady. “I  _really_  like you. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, I really,  _really_  don’t want to make you uncomfortable so don’t worry I won’t speak about it again and I’m sure I’ll get over it and we can continue on as we are because I love being your friend more than anything and I don’t want to ruin that.”

Your breath catches just slightly as you finish and you pull your hand from his, your fingers curling inside your sweater sleeves as you ready yourself for what you know is coming.

He’s staring at you, the frown still on his features.

Oh, fuck, why aren’t you a good liar,  _why_  couldn’t you have just  _lied_.

“You like me? Really?”

_Please don’t laugh at me, please don’t laugh at me…_

“Yeah.” You’ll be surprised if he heard you you speak that quietly.

He inhales a slow breath, his jaw moving slightly. “Well, this is a shame.”

_Oh fuck, you fucking idiot—_

”If you’d told me sooner I would’ve finally been able to kiss you.”

It’s now your turn to stare at him. 

Have you heard him right? Oh, God, are you delusional now?

“… What?”

“I’ve been thinking about you, too, Hepburn,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek as one side of his mouth lifts higher than the other. “I could have borrowed a car to get home, but I wanted to be here with you. I wanted to see you. I always want to see you. After every damn mission, after every briefing, all I can think about is that I get to see you again, I get to hear your voice and listen to what you’ve been up to.”

Your head tips back slightly to look at him as he leans closer, his other hand spreading across the side of your neck. 

“I wanted to hold you after the party, I wanted to say so much more. I wanted to say how God damn beautiful you are. It doesn’t matter what I think, but I want to tell you you are beautiful.”

If you are deluded, then you don’t want to be sane ever again.

“I want to kiss you, too, Hepburn,” he continues, his voice lowering into a tone that’s decidedly new and very much welcome. 

You swallow lightly as you involuntarily wet your lips, and his gaze drops to follow the movement. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling his damp vest and his heart beating below it.

He said he wants to kiss you, but he’s not moving. He’s just gazing at you, his thumb gently stroking along your cheekbone. 

He’s waiting for permission. 

He doesn’t want to push you.

It’s sweet, so sweet that a part of your brain has melted and is crying, but you want to kiss him, too. Very, very much.

Your hand cups his jaw as you rise up on your toes and capture his lips in a soft kiss. He reacts instantly, his lips parting and his arms sliding around you. You’re pressed against him, and for once in your life you’re not hyper-aware of your stomach touching his, of his hands on you, of what he might be thinking. 

Because you trust and you know he’s only thinking about  _you_.

His mouth opens a little wider as he feels yours do the same, and his tongue gently touches against your lower lip. The soft moan you release has his arms tightening around you and the intensity of the kiss increasing. Your hands cup his face as he holds you against him, a faint groan sounding from the back of his throat. 

You have to break the kiss a few minutes later to draw breath, though you don’t want this moment to ever end so you keep your eyes closed, a tiny part of you still believing this isn’t real and that’ll you open your eyes and he won’t be there.

You feel his forehead touch yours and a smile pulls at your lips. 

“Well, this is not how I imagined today going… Or the last five minutes, really,” you whisper, your hands sliding back down to his chest.

You feel his laugh under your hands.

“You can say that again,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing slow circles on your lower back.

Clearing your throat, you expect a wave of shyness to suddenly take hold of you or nerves… But relief and joy is all that lingers.

Drawing your head back, you finally open your eyes and find him looking at you, the warm smile from when he’d first seen you that day returning.

His thumb runs down your jaw to your lips and brushes over them, and he starts to lean in again.

“Wait,” you murmur and he instantly lifts his head, prompting your smile to widen. “No, I do very much want to kiss you, Steve, let’s just move to the living room. It really is comfier.”

“We gonna make-out on the couch like teenagers, huh?” he chuckles as you take his hand and lead him through to the room.

“You bet your ass we are,” you grin, turning to him and sliding your arms around his waist.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers into your ear as he lowers his head, and you can’t stop yourself from inhaling sharply as a tingle runs down your spine.

Oh, God, his lips are on your neck and this is  _heaven_  and—

Then, you see it.

_Oh, shit. Oh, **fuck**._

Your bra is still lying neatly folded in the corner of the coffee table.

Normally, you wouldn’t have minded. Steve’s an adult, he can handle seeing a damn bra, but this one isn’t exactly your best; it’s your oldest and most comfiest and it’s served you well, but, boy, it really does have to go, but not when bra prices are this  _ridiculous_  and— 

“Hepburn?”

You half hum, half clear your throat as you blink and lift your gaze from the bra, finding Steve’s raised his head and he’s following your previous eye-line and  _oh, God, please don’t see it_ — 

He’s seen it.

Turning back to you, the corners of his mouth twitch as he arches an eyebrow. 

“I—”

Before he can say another word, you’re on your toes again and gripping his chin to tilt it down, your lips finding his once more. It’s a deeper kiss this time, slightly more desperate from your need for him to not make any sort of comment. Thankfully, he responds, and enthusiastically at that; his arms slide around you and his hands press against your lower back, pulling you firmly against him as his tongue strokes along your mouth.

You should’ve waited until you were both sat on the couch because you don’t think your legs are going to be able to hold you up any longer. 

And then his mouth is moving down your jaw and to your neck.

Tipping your head back with a slightly shaky exhale, your fingers curl into his vest as he trails warm, open-mouthed kisses down your sensitive skin. His sinfully delicious ministrations stop just at your ear as his fingers slip under the hem of your sweatshirt and caress the bare skin over your hip.

“So am I right in assuming you’re not wearing a bra underneath here, Hepburn,” he murmurs, his voice low.

_Oh, fuck._

Your breathing hitches and you know he heard it, his finger tips pressing into your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe.

Groaning quietly, his lifts his head and his lips brush against yours, though he doesn’t kiss you. 

“I think I’d like to do more than just make-out on the couch with you, sweetheart,” he says in a low tone, a tone that, coupled with his words, has heat pooling in your lower stomach and your thighs squeezing together.

“Yes,” you breathe again because it’s the only word your brain seems to know right now but that doesn’t matter because he’s kissing you again.

He’s kissing you and it’s searing and fierce and has your entire body responding to him. Your nipples peak into tight buds, though you doubt he can feel it through the barriers of your shirt and thick sweater. A damp spot is forming on your panties and you desperately want to rock your hips against is to alleviate some of the blissful ache and finally feel him against you because you’ve been dream—

“Do you want to slow down?”

You can’t believe he says it. Well, you can, it’s just so  _Steve_ , but even as he was saying the words his breath was slightly ragged and he’s still holding you tightly.

He definitely doesn’t want to stop, but the last thing in the world he wants is to pressure you.

God, you want him so much.

And you tell him that, because being around Steve Rogers makes you bold.

“I want you, Steve,” you murmur as you step back from him and take his hand, your gaze finding his. 

He can’t take his eyes off of you as you lead him to your bedroom, and even though your heart is pounding against your ribcage a smile lingers on your lips. You should be nervous, you think, and you’re surprised you’re not; you’ve fantasised about this in one of two ways, 1) You’d be a confident and sexy temptress who would leave him flustered and on his knees, or 2) You’d be blushing and shy, whispering to him that you were nervous and he would be so sweet and gentle. 

But… 

You’re comfortable. 

It is the single most wonderful feeling.

Steve releases your hand after you both enter your bedroom and you turn to him, watching him close the door, and suddenly you’re the only two people in the world.

His eyes linger on you still as he approaches, your hands already reaching out to him. You settle them on his waist as his go to either side of your neck and you both lean in to kiss the other in the same moment. It’s a slightly slower kiss than before, more languid, though no less passionate.

You can feel his erection against you and this time you allow yourself to slowly rock your hips. He groans against your lips, his thumb stroking up your jaw. 

“Christ…” he breathes, perhaps involuntarily. 

You roll your hips again, a little more firmly, and he hisses out a breath, his fingers flexing against your neck.

“You’re wearing too many damn clothes, Hepburn,” he murmurs in a slightly strained tone, suddenly withdrawing from you as his hands drop to the hem of your sweater.

You lift your arms to help him as he pulls the sweater up, tossing it aside once it’s off of you. You expect him to kiss you again, in fact you start reaching out for him, but Steve’s hands are suddenly on your hips and he’s gently moving you backwards. Your calves touch against the edge of your bed and you know what he wants.

As you climb backwards onto it, Steve moves with you, supporting himself above you by his hands either side of you. His lips stay close to yours, and your breathing hitches as his gaze flicks between them and your eyes.

But he doesn’t kiss you again, not your lips anyway.

Lowering his head, he slowly kisses down your throat, your eyes closing as your head tilts back. Dragging your teeth over your lower lip, a lingering hum sounds from the back of your throat as his mouth licks and sucks at your sensitive skin.

Then his head is lowering again, his lips brushing over the front of your shirt, and you can feel his warm breath nearing your breasts. You swallow, just about resisting the urge to arch your back to show him how needy you are.

And then his lips close over one of your nipples and he sucks gently.

Inhaling sharply, your mouth dropping open, your hands grip at his biceps. The delicious sensation of him sucking at your aching nipple through the shirt has you quickly trying to suppress moans, your teeth sinking into your lower lip.

“Oh, no, don’t go quiet on me now, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs as he moves to your other nipple, sucking a little more firmly and stroking at the tight bud with his tongue. 

Groaning, your fingers press into his skin as your hips rise and push against his, desperately seeking friction for the increasingly needy ache between your thighs.

His teeth graze over your nipple before lightly tugging at it and your eyes snap open to watch him. You find his gaze on you, watching every reaction you give him. 

“Steve…” you gasp, your words falling away as his fingers tug and twist at your other nipple.

“Yeah, baby?” he prompts between sucks, his leg settling between yours, his knee right where you need him most because he  _knows_.

“Come on, Steve… Need you…”

You rock your hips, pressing your clothed, wet folds against his thigh and it’s just  _not enough_.

Lifting his head, thoroughly satisfied with the faint, damp patches on your shirt, Steve brushes his lips against your jaw. Your eyes fall shut as his tongue brushes over your skin, and then you feel his fingers running down your stomach and the bed shift slightly as he replaces his thigh with his hand. 

“Here?” he murmurs into your ear as he circles his palm, the heel of it pressing against your swollen clit.

“God, yes, Steve, please…” you release in one breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t be a God damn tease…”

He chuckles against your neck and you just can’t help but smile at the sound of it. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

Feeling him sit back, your eyes open and you watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants and start to tug them down. Then, he pauses as he arches an eyebrow, seeing your shorts beneath them.

“Exactly how many layers are under here, sweetheart?”

“Only one more, I promise,” you answer, biting at your lower lip in an unsuccessful attempt to stop a grin.

“Just one more, huh?” He starts to slide the shorts down with the sweatpants, his gaze holding yours. 

The way he says it and the intensity of his gaze has your grin fading sharply as lust surges through you once more.

Dropping your sweatpants and shorts to the floor behind him, he leans over you, one hand supporting himself beside your shoulder, the fingers on the other trailing up the curve of your outer thigh, over your hip and up between your breasts.

“Take your shirt off,” he commands in a low tone, a tone that is usually reserved for giving out orders during a mission.

It has you tingling all over.

He places his hand beside you and watches you as you lower your hands and grip the hem of your shirt. Arching your back, you drag it up your torso, over your breasts and over your head. Tossing the shirt aside, your gaze finds his. The moment your eyes meet his are then travelling down your body, lingering on your lips, your breasts and then down to your panties, a damp spot very much visible.

His hand slides over your hip and settles on your lower stomach, making your muscles tighten involuntarily. Spreading his fingers, his thumb then strokes down your covered slit. Gasping, your hips buck and a corner of his mouth lifts.

“Come on, Steve…” you whisper, uncaring that your need is so evident in your tone.

His gaze flicking up to meet yours, he grips the waistband of your panties and pulls them down in one smooth movement, sitting back with the action. Tugging them over your feet, he lets them join the pile on the floor behind him.

And now you’re completely naked before him.

Again, you wait for shyness or embarrassment to creep over you.

And, again, neither come.

Inhaling a long, slow breath, Steve’s hands slide under your knees and he spreads your legs a little wider, your wet folds parting, and you could just come right there at his eyes on you and the groan he releases.

Tilting your head, your tongue glides across your lips.

“This isn’t fair,” you whisper, “You’ve still got all your clothes on.”

Looking up at you, arching an eyebrow, his smile returns and something inside you flutters.

“You’re right there, sweetheart.” Looking down at himself, you almost want to laugh as he seems rather surprised. “I guess we better even things out.”

And then he’s pulling his vest off and you can see each of his muscles moving as he stretches. And then he’s on his feet and unbuckling his belt, the scraping sound of metal on metal filling the room. And then he’s unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and pushing them down. And then he’s removing his boxers and kicking them aside along with his jeans and socks. And then he’s naked before you.

Your breathing quickening, you barely blink as your gaze sweeps over him, trying to take him all in at once as he moves towards you again.

You’ve only ever seen him clothed, having had to rely on your imagination for what lay beneath his tactical gear, his suits and his every day clothes, and, now, having him here, completely real and bare, well, you want to spend hours memorising him.

His hard cock brushing against your stomach tells you both, though, that that time isn’t now.

The moment he’s stretched out above you, you’re cupping his face and he’s lowering his head, your lips meeting in a bruising kiss. Moaning against his mouth, his tongue then sweeps along the seam of yours as you wrap your legs around his hips, pent up sexual frustration now finally spilling over. 

Sliding a hand down his chest, your fingers glide over his cock and he practically  _growls_  into your mouth, his hand fisting the bedsheets beside you. Circling your thumb around his wet tip, you moan along with him as he thrusts into your hand. His other hand grips at your thigh as you stroke your hand up and down him, feeling every inch of him and knowing,  _rejoicing_ , that he’s very soon going to be inside you.

Again, that seems to be on his mind, too.

“Sweetheart… Not gonna last long if you keep doing that…” he pants, his jaw tight as his lips linger over yours.

You can’t stop yourself. Sliding your fingers down, you caress his balls.

A strained groan escapes him as his hand darts down and grips your wrist, his hold relaxing a nano second later.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that later…” he half whispers, half groans, even as he smiles breathlessly at the sight of your own smile.

The promise of a ‘later’ has your smile widening.

And then it’s gone again as he releases your hand and slides his fingers down your soaking folds.

“Oh, fuck…” you gasp, your mouth dropping open as he circles your clit slowly.

“Do you have protection?” he murmurs into your ear, his nose brushing against your cheek.

“Mmh… Condoms in bedside drawer…” you breathe, the words falling off into a low moan as he dips a finger tip into you.

Reaching over with his other hand, he continues to slowly caress you as you hear him open the drawer and root around. Tilting your head back, you’re about to start rolling your hips against his hand when it suddenly leaves you. Opening your eyes, you watch him as he opens a packet and rolls the condom onto his cock. Then, he glides your wetness from his fingers over the condom as he lifts his head and meets your gaze.

Settling himself above you, Steve captures your lips in a surprisingly tender kiss, considering how obviously needy you both are.

“Are you sure?” he whispers against your mouth, and, God, you think you might actually love him.

“Yes,” you breathe, cupping his jaw as you tighten your legs around his hips.

One hand is beside you as the other reaches down and grips his cock, and you want to watch but you don’t want to stop kissing him. Then, you feel his tip nudge against your folds and the kiss slows just slightly as you both focus on it. Guiding his tip to your hole, he then slowly thrusts forward and you’re so wet he fills you in one delicious movement.

Your lips part with a lingering, breathy moan at the feel of him  _finally_  inside you, filling you and stretching you perfectly.

“Jesus Christ…” he grinds out through gritted teeth, his forehead resting against yours.

Gripping at his shoulders, you don’t know what you want more; him to not move so you can just feel him inside you, or for him to start moving instantly so you can finally feel him fucking you.

He makes the decision for you.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks as softly as he can, trying not to sound strained as he slowly pulls his hips back. 

Your reply is a broken hum as you feel his cock dragging against your slick walls, your nails sinking into his skin.

“Sweet—”

“Please, Steve, fuck me…” you gasp against his lips as he pushes back into you, your hips rising to meet his.

That’s all the reassurance he needs.

Gripping at the sheets with both hands, his thrusts start to quicken as he crushes his lips to yours, finally allowing his need to take over. Every push and pull of his thick cock inside you has you moaning, your hard nipples brushing against his chest with every move he makes. Your tongues stroke against each other as you grip onto him, complete and utter pleasure taking over your senses.

You both won’t last long, you know, especially as he pulls his lips from yours and kisses and sucks at your throat; you’ve both been wanting this for far too long.

“Fuck, Steve…” you moan loudly as his fingers find your nipple and resume their earlier role of twisting and tugging at it.

“When I wasn’t talking to you, I was thinking about you…” he groans suddenly against your skin as you glide your nails through his hair. “… On the missions, couldn’t stop damn thinkin’ about you… Always thinkin’ about you…” His own words seem to fuel him as he fucks you hard and deep, starting to draw cries of pleasure from you. “… Can’t get you out of my damn mind, you’re all I want to think about and see… And touch and taste… God, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

Breathing raggedly, you press a firm, lingering kiss to his temple, trying to convey just how much those words mean to you. Later you’ll be able to tell him, but right now all you can focus on is how  _good_  he feels. Pleasure is already starting to swirl and build within you, and as his thrusts quicken rapidly, all you can do is moan and curse incoherently.

His free hand slides under your knee and tilts your hips and suddenly he’s thrusting deeper inside of you, touching at places that have you crying out  _loudly_.

“You close, sweetheart?” 

You’re about to attempt to answer him when his fingers leave your nipple and drop to your clit, two fingers circling it with nearly the same speed as his thrusts.

A string of barely intelligible curses and moans fall from your lips as your back arches and you grip tightly at his biceps, probably to the point of hurting him but he doesn’t feel it, only focusing on you.

“Come on, sweetheart…” he breathes, “… Need you to come for me, need you to come on my cock…”

Steve Rogers dirty talking nearly tips you over the edge you’re so close to. 

“Gonna come, Steve, fuck…” you gasp, the pleasure within you rising and rising as your back arches.

“Come for me…” he groans, just as he thrusts deep inside you and presses his fingers down on your clit.

You tumble over the edge.

Crying out, you’re not sure if you say his name or curse as you cling to him, waves and waves of intense pleasure crashing over you. Closing your eyes tightly, your walls clench around him as you bury your face into the crook of his neck.

His hands grip your hips and you can’t make out what he groans as he chases his own release, before he suddenly stiffens and unleashes a muffled yell against your shoulder, his hips jerking.

You don’t know how long you lie there, breathing hard as you grip onto him and he grips onto you, feeling each other’s heart pounding wildly.

“Next time…”

The corners of your mouth lift in a lazy, ridiculously giddy smile as Steve finally lifts his head and looks at you, his thumb brushing over your lips as he cups your cheek.

“… Next time, we’re gonna take it slow, and I’m gonna taste and feel every inch of you, Hepburn.”

“Yes, Captain,” you murmur, turning your head to press a soft, lingering kiss to his palm.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers, a smile spreading across his own lips as he rests his forehead against yours.

 

* * *

 


End file.
